He raised an eyebrow at her and BeBe. “You girls watch it. People can get killed running onto trains at the last second. This ain’t the movies.”
She and BeBe nodded gravely. Then they clutched each other and retired, giggling.
The train led them across the country at a brisk rate. Faye shared a compartment with BeBe. Many roomettes were private, even luxurious if one could afford it. But it saved money to have people share, and honestly Faye didn’t mind. At first little passed between the girls and they barely spoke except a few polite mumbled words as they prepared for sleep each day. BeBe rushed out the door every possible opportunity, as if wanting to avoid Faye. She seemed to have something on her mind.
On the second night of travel, Faye lay in her cot, watching the lights pass over the ceiling. In her mind she viewed again what had happened that day on the train—scattered, rather uninteresting conversations. The rattling wheels rolled under her, and the bed swayed back and forth gently. Streaks of moonlight crossed and crisscrossed through the shade. BeBe was lying rolled over, not moving much. Suddenly she turned and looked at the ceiling, hands folded on her chest.
“Faye? Hey, Faye, are you awake?” she hissed.
Faye blinked sleepily. “I guess so.”
BeBe’s eyes watched the ceiling. “How do you know if you’re pregnant, Faye?”
Faye’s eyes opened wide and she rolled over. Had she really heard that? Was that what BeBe had been hiding? How exciting! And if true, how deeply, deeply wonderful—well . . . except that BeBe wasn’t married. Faye’s face fell. She’d forgotten that. The miracle of life was a miracle regardless of the situation, but then what should she do when the situation was so flawed? Welcoming the baby would seem to be condoning improper behavior. But how could one punish a baby? It was God’s physical and emotional design for women to have babies. Shouldn’t they want to have one no matter what the situation?
“Um . . . why do you ask?” she said aloud, hesitantly.
BeBe shrugged. “’Cause you’ll know, schmookums. Your mom had upwards of forty kids, right? Ya must have seen the signs. Mama never talked about it with me. I asked her once, but she said it was improper until I was married.” She tossed and turned on the bed. “But everyone is . . . doing things now. It’s not like before. Sure, maybe she didn’t need education before she met Dad. But it’s the twentieth century, ya know?”
Faye’s eyes clouded. It sure is. Help me to have faith, Lord, in this age of science. “Well, my mother always knew because she stopped having a monthly cycle.”
BeBe bit her lip. “That’s what I thought. I read somewhere in a magazine article once, but I wasn’t sure. So many of the things in magazines are just phony.” She laughed. “Funny, I read about that exactly as I was ridin’ to meet up with the fellow. The world’s crazy sometimes.”
Faye bit her lip. BeBe had last been out of town and unsupervised in Chicago, right before the funeral. That had been a couple of months ago, though the time had flown so fast it seemed shorter. “I’m so happy for you.” She squeezed BeBe’s hand. “It’s the most beautiful thing God has made. Well, one of the most beautiful. Rainbows and coffee are good too.”
BeBe laughed and rolled over to face her. “Yeah, can’t do without coffee. Only problem is in telling Mama and Papa. I imagine there’ll be a whammy in there for me. Probably run a boat over me.” She giggled, mirthlessly.
Faye struggled for words. She’d never been so conflicted. Nine out of ten parts of her wanted to rejoice wholeheartedly. There was nothing more important—more specifically feminine, in a sense—than God’s miraculous design of pregnancy. Under the right circumstances, that is. But these aren’t the right circumstances. And a tiny part of Faye—very tiny—couldn’t forget that.
“Don’t you think you should marry the father? Who is he? It’s wrong to have children outside of marriage.”
BeBe’s brows lowered and her tone changed. She let go of Faye’s hand and sat up, flouncing. “Aw, you quit that, greenie baby! You’re just jealous, that’s all. Just stinkin’ jealous!”
Faye’s lip wobbled. “I’m not! I’m not jealous. I’m happy for you, truly, but you have to think about what’s right . . .”
BeBe bounced angrily. “Ya are! Besides, what are you, eighty-three? God moves with each new generation. He’s a twentieth century God now. That’s what Mr. Halwell says.” She plopped down hard on the bed, mouth in a tight line. “I’m not some oldie. I’ve got to do right in my own time, not the time of the Pharaohs.”
“I’m sorry,” said Faye, softly. I’ve failed. I’ve made following You seem unattractive to BeBe. “How did you and the father . . . how did you . . .” –she turned pink— “ . . . know that you were special to each other?”
The rolling of the train continued. Faye felt as if they were two babies themselves, rocking to sleep in a swing. Life had been so much less complicated when she was little. When she was born, it was before the war, and out in the Tennessee woods life had been very simple. And people always got married. They just did.
BeBe was still considering the question, which seemed to floor her. “I dunno. He’s the son of a producer, see, and does some producing on his own. So I thought if we could get chummy, he might get me a break on some show. Promised he would, too. And he came back with a call day or two after and said he’d got me a gig. That was the gig I told Dad about. It won’t come for a while. Now Dad’s gone, maybe I’ll run up to New York and see if I can get it. That was all, really. Don’t know if you think that’s ‘special’ or not.” She shrugged.
Faye felt better. BeBe really valued her opinion. “That’s nice.”
“Myrtle was with someone too, when we went up there,’ BeBe added, as an afterthought. “With Horace. I just about did a somersault on the carpet when I heard he was coming to visit. And his sister married a preacher, go figure!”
Stay calm, Faye. Stay calm. “HORACE?” she shouted, sitting bolt upright as if the proverbial lightning had struck her.
BeBe pulled her back. “Ssh, ninny. Thing about secrets is you act quieter when you’ve got one, not louder.”
“Right. Sorry,” Faye apologized. “Do you think Myrtle . . . did anything with Horace? Did she get engaged to Mr. Rivers so quickly to cover it up? Is she pregnant too?” Perish the thought.
BeBe had apparently never considered this possibility. It was altogether new to her, and her eyes popped as she ruminated over it. “Huh. Not sure if she did anything. They went on a few dates, and he’s a swell guy, I know she’s fallen for him. But . . . I dunno. She hasn’t told me.”
Faye settled back down. She had a lot to think about. Especially the way Myrtle was acting with Horace these days. Plenty of flirting. Was it possible they’d continue their relationship—whatever exactly it was—even though she was engaged now? Mr. Rivers was not very observant . . . it was an old story really. Faye gave a worried chuckle as she drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke next morning, BeBe was already gone. Faye got dressed and paused a moment, soothing her stomach, before heading into the dining car to encounter all of them. There must be no trace of her new information in her behavior, and considering what she’d just learned that would be a real strain to pull off. In the dining car, Grover and Aunt Cora sat with BeBe. BeBe did not smile at her, and Faye felt it wisest to move on. Horace, Myrtle, and Mr. Rivers formed a trio at another white-covered table, and it went without saying Faye wouldn’t be included. So she sat beside Ed and Helene, as she had every breakfast since the journey began.
Helene took the plate of sausages and eggs the waiter handed to her. “All those field workers look so happy. I’m sure they’re very tough to still be in such a good mood. I’d hate to work outdoors.”
Ed lounged beside her, arm draped behind the back of her seat. He didn’t seem conscious Faye could take that the wrong way—or any way, really. And Faye didn’t. She and Helene had immediately developed a really good sort of friendship. Ed always seemed to expect them to
become a bit psychological about him, but that was only his cockiness talking. There was no way any two women would compete over him. He was not that sort of man.
“Yes, there’s no reason for them not to be happy,” he said, brilliantly. “I’ve found people are almost never unhappy with their lots in life. They simply decide that they like whatever they’ve got.”
“Hmmm, a fabulous idea, but I can’t say I agree,” said Helene. “I think it’s true for the sharecroppers and those unemployed by the crash and that sort of thing. But for people who are just scraping along on the edge of high society, I think there’s a lot of discontent. Ours is the hardest life. Don’t you think so, sister Faye?”
Faye nodded. “Oh, of course. I’m very discontented, it’s really sad. Ah, breakfast!”
After a while, Ed and Helene toddled back through the swaying train to their seats. Faye remained to finish her breakfast. The car was much emptier now, and she couldn’t help hearing the conversation at Myrtle’s table just across the aisle. Mr. Rivers was talking about photography to his affianced.
“I have some settled interest in the subject and own my own set of lenses,” he droned. “While I was in Greece, I took a number of photographs of the wharfs around Faliron. They are only a few miles from the famous Parthenon of Athens—temple to the goddess of wisdom.” He chuckled self-consciously at the mention of that strong-minded lady. His eyes lightly scanned Myrtle before he ducked his head down and began opening his wallet. “Then I went on to Macedonia. I believe I have pictures of some hills . . . .”
Myrtle yawned visibly and lounged, leaving Horace to make some polite remark about the contribution of Greek culture to later history. Mr. Rivers eagerly launched into his views about the current Greek government and his devotion to patriots. He even owned a little Greek flag as a souvenir and hung it in his bedroom. Although one would think this detail might be viewed as relevant to Myrtle—considering their relationship—she paid no attention whatsoever.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I won’t impose myself. I’m sure you’ve seen enough of me for a morning,” Horace said, ostentatiously rising as Mr. Rivers pulled out some pictures of uncultivated hills under a bright, whitish sun.
Myrtle nodded negligently. “Sure, as you like.”
With this permission, Horace left her to engage in the mandated pretending—for about twenty minutes per day—that she and Mr. Rivers had a connection. Horace slid into the seat opposite Faye. She fingered her napkin, not sure what to do as his dark eyes flashed a glance at her. Horace had often cast her these glances, hard to read or to understand. They almost seemed like yearning. Yearning for something forbidden, something beyond reach. There was a kind of hopelessness in them. But if he wanted something forbidden, Myrtle was right there, engaged to somebody else! And BeBe was right there, already pregnant. And of course Helene was his sister. That was enough forbidden in one room for any man, surely. Besides, how could she be so sure the longing was about her? Horace Carter was a man used to getting his own way, that was certain. But how could Faye possibly have anything to interest him when compared with her beautiful, polished cousins?
“Hey, I’ve heard a rumor we’ll actually see the fabled Wind Downs at last. I’ve visited some pretty tight joints in my time, but there’s nothing like a building once owned by royalty, eh Miss Powell?”
Faye preferred not to catch his gaze. After what she’d just heard from BeBe, it was clear his questionable relationship with Myrtle was of some duration. Surely that knowledge ought to counterbalance his rugged white morning sweater and sent of aftershave. She ducked her head, wishing he would go away. Why do I never notice what Ed smells like? When he comes into a room, it feels as familiar as Uncle Warren. Is that good or bad?
She bit into a spoonful of cereal. “Um . . . I don’t know if I could really call those Hollywood performers royalty just because people flock to see them. You might just as well say circus clowns were royalty. Aristocracy is something more.”
Horace smiled. “I understand.”
Faye was startled. “You do?”
His warm eyes, glinting like toasted raisins, scanned her. “Sure thing. You’ve got a sharp way of looking at things. No fool’s gold is going to drag you off the course, is it? Holding out for the real deal.”
It’s true. That’s exactly what I’m doing. “Yes, I suppose so. I don’t want to make a bad investment,” she said, carefully choosing her words.
He gave a warm, mellow smile, serene laughter in the corners of his eyes. In spite of what she knew to be true about him, she perceived his charisma and the power and masculinity that dripped from him. He had almost superhuman levels of magnetism—a man to get inside a woman’s head and twist it up. But he couldn’t possibly understand many aspects of my life. I don’t really like him at all. When my head is clearer, I’ll realize that.
In any case, she couldn’t really talk about these thoughts with the person who inspired them, so the conversation died. He turned to Aunt Cora, saying something polite about how he’d missed seeing Aunt Betty on the trip. Faye was glad of the interruption and returned to her roomette. There was a lot on her mind.
Chapter 6
When at long last they arrived at the house, Myrtle and BeBe let out a concerted squeal. It was an absolute picture of a Hollywood actor’s luxury paradise, straight out of the magazines of gossip about the stars. Faye couldn’t have felt more among the rich and famous if she’d been invited to Clark Gable’s personal mansion. A weekly movie now and then was a Haverton tradition, so of course she’d seen her share. For about twenty years the new entertainment had consumed the popular mind, and there had been a craze with the movies. She disapproved, of course. Very much indeed. If she could have her choice, she’s always go to see a play instead, preferably something classic like A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But she did admit the movies were sometimes interesting. And they were far more interesting to her cousins.
For about two years, Myrtle and BeBe had been poking around the entertainment sphere in an amateur way—BeBe largely into radio, Myrtle with some affectations for the silver screen. Faye could hear their sugary voices trying to assure her aunt and uncle that it was a respected profession. There’s lots of good roles now . . . it’s a way to make business contacts . . . everyone speaks well of the producers and says they treat actors right. But she knew they only wanted to do it so they could have some unsupervised fun and maybe get taken to some actor’s home for a visit. Their interest was in no way professional, and it was obvious they were only being allowed to continue their efforts because their parents thought they’d never be able to succeed. But after learning about BeBe’s “gig,” Faye felt her aunt and uncle should be worried. The girls might not stick out talent-wise, but they were available, and sharky types on the edge could easily pick them up and get them in trouble.
Myrtle hadn’t really said how she had met Mr. Rivers, but considering he’d known Fredric March enough to buy his old home, it was possible they’d met through mutual show-business acquaintances rather than through Mr. Rivers’ niece at The B. That might have cast enough of a haze over him for Myrtle to imagine herself attracted. Maybe—maybe not. I’m not sure Mr. Rivers ever had a celluloid allure. The house, having been discarded by an established star like Mr. March, still seemed a haunt for fringe Hollywood types. Faye glimpsed the edge of a pool around which mustachioed men in plaid suits stood while young ladies dipped their toes in the water and tried to get the attention of lifeguards who prowled the premises. Several older businessmen with smiles leaned against trees between her and the pool, sipping something that looked alcoholic and surveying the crowd.
Faye turned to the others as they headed towards the house. “Hey, I didn’t know Mr. Rivers had so many friends over. Myrtle did you know? We probably shouldn’t crash it. Don’t you think?”
Myrtle and BeBe looked at each other and then at her as if they didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Seriously, dollface, what’s
up with you? Cat got your hair or something? It’s going to be O.K,” said BeBe, sucking on a lollipop.
Myrtle tossed her hair. “Relax, they just use the house because they used to come here when Fredric owned it. We’re more Bill’s friends than the rest of them are.” Her chuckle was hardly protective of her beloved future husband. “Do you seriously think Bill would get a set like this around him? Please.”
Faye had been walking backwards so she could see them as she spoke. By a stroke of complete ill-luck, the heel of her pump caught on a row of brown, brick-shaped stones that lined the walkway. She lost her balance completely and toppled on her back, waving her arms. Myrtle and BeBe went on, their laughter echoing in her ears as she fell.
Fell, fell, fell . . . she could feel her body collapsing through space, feel the lurch in her stomach that spelled doom. The blue sky was overhead—so very, very blue, filled with tiny white clouds that dotted like marshmallows in Aunt Cora’s tropical jelled fruit dessert. Oh, how Faye’d always loved that dessert. Aunt Betty used to have a tall, thin glass cup of it set out for her whenever she visited Bellevere as a child. The little bits of luscious, exotic pineapple; the crunchy, fibrous threads of coconut, each bite of which breathed of the wild blue Pacific. The whipped cream on top was like the clouds above her. Why was everything so upside down all of a sudden? Oh right, of course. I’m falling.
A shadow obtruded itself into the blue parfait sky. With a thud, she realized she was lying on the grass. Her fall had been broken by one of the lifeguards, who now lay with his arm under her. His concerned face looked down into hers. He had alert, smiling eyes, and his hair, previously slicked with pomade, was damp and coming undone in soft curls around his neck and forehead. Faye closed her eyes. Goodness, how embarrassing. We’re so close.
The young man rose and pulled her to her feet. He was shirtless and had a healthy glow, like most lifeguards. It wasn’t anything really, but it was much too casual in this infectious atmosphere.
Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Page 5